Rorschach's Journal
by GodzillaGuy92
Summary: Three, two, one.


Well, this is my first fic in quite awhile. It can only be a good sign that it's based around a universe as ingenius as _Watchmen_ and a character as amazing as Rorschach. That and I'm gonna make this Author's Note shorter than my usual so you guys can get on with the story as quickly as possible. I guess you'll just have to spot the allusions and symbolism for yourself this time.

For now, this is a oneshot, but I may add subsequent entries if the proper inspiration strikes me. If any of you think of anything that might make a good entry, feel free to mention it when you review (hintity hint hint).

Finally, this story is dedicated to Lani, the only one of my group of close friends who was (almost) as obsessed with _Watchmen_ as me. Lani, if you're reading this, I hope I've succeeded in brightening your day a little and keeping me in your memory a little longer. I'm gonna miss you.

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Rorschach's Journal

1975

Don't know the date. Date doesn't matter. Three deaths, two murders, one birth. That's what matters.

Three, two, one. Like a ticking clock. Or maybe a timer. A countdown. Counting down what?

Maybe the end of the world. The Day of Reckoning. Sounds about right. Can't be counting down toward anything else. When a coin falls down a drain or a boulder begins to roll down a hill or a bomb is dropped from the cold night sky, can't stop it. Only thing that stops it is when the coin is lost in the reeking sewers, when the boulder smashes into the side of a house, when the bomb detonates and takes thousands of lives with it in a flash of heat and flame. World is a lost cause. No stopping the end. Three, two, one. The clock is ticking.

First death. First murder. Blair Roche. Six years old. Kidnapped by a man claiming to be Gerald Grice, thought she was related to the Roche Chemical fortune. Different Roche. Father was a low-class bus driver in the city. Kidnapper took her back to home, an abandoned dressmaker's shop. Full of sharp objects. Full of knives, hooks, and teeth of two hungry dogs.

Second death. Second murder. Walter Kovacs. Young, naive. Used my identity to fight criminals, wore my face. Too soft to be me. Let them live when he was done with them. Weak. Tracked the little girl to kidnapper's home in spite of it. Admirable, but useless. Saw what had happened. Saw the piece of the girl's dress sitting in the furnace. Saw the cutting board in the kitchen, splattered with fresh blood. Saw the dogs fighting over a child's femur. Bloodless death, but no less of a murder than the little girl's. Whimpered for the mother he'd never had. Closed his eyes. Never opened them again.

Third death. Doesn't count as murder. Said his name was Gerald Grice. He lied. Insects don't have names. Garbage can't beg for mercy as it's handcuffed to a furnace. Dirt possesses no true life to extinguish when I set abandoned buildings on fire.

Would have liked to murder him. Would have enjoyed it even more than Kovacs enjoyed living in the paradise where no one threatened to beat him with a rolling pin or told him they should have gotten that abortion, back when he was still alive. But there had never been anything to murder. Something to kill, but murder had been robbed from me from the beginning. Murder reserved only for human deaths. No joy, no satisfaction. Not in killing without murder. Not even after retribution had been achieved.

Couldn't distract myself by thinking of the kidnapper as I watched the old shop burn. Not even when I tried. No more than I can remember a bug I stepped on last week. Only thought of them. Kovacs and the little girl. Much worse.

Stared for an hour until the flames died. Or maybe it was several hours. Or might have taken only minutes. Couldn't tell. Felt like days.

Inhaled the smoke for a few more minutes. Unless it was hours. Realized what the smell reminded me of. Birthday candles.

One birth. Me. Only a few hours old. Brought into the world by the death of Kovacs. Like a phoenix reborn from its own ashes. Or maybe closer to a zombie, using another's corpse in order to walk around. But now alive nonetheless, when I had not been alive before. Opened Kovacs's eyes after he closed them for the last time. My eyes now.

Spent the first few hours of my life roaming the streets, searching the convenient stores. Had to look through thirteen stores before I found what I was looking for. Ice-cold Coca-Cola. Like the ones in the commercials. Not in plastic bottles or aluminum cans. Green glass bottles with condensation dripping down the sides. The way Coke was meant be drunk. Getting harder and harder to find. Soon there will be no place to buy them anymore. Clock is ticking. Three, two, one. Should go back and buy the rest before they're all gone. Must remember.

Bought birthday candles too. Using light from one of them to write this journal entry. Used up three-quarters of them writing the parts before this. Only three left now. Soon it will be two. Should have gotten cake. Oh well. Coke is better.

World is locked in a downward spiral. It cannot be saved. Will reach the bottom soon. But until the day the apocalypse arrives someone must protect the good and punish the evil. Armageddon doesn't change that. Nothing can. More Walter Kovacs' and Blair Roche's in the world left unprotected and unavenged. More filth in the world left uncleaned.

Let the liberals sit high upon their thrones, built upon the rotting bodies of thousands, and pass their petty laws. Let them tell me I can't do my duty. They will try, but can't stop me. Just like they can't stop the Day of Reckoning. Comes closer with every second. Just like my shrinking candles. Only one left now.

Three, two, one. The end is nigh. And I walk alongside it. My name is Rorschach. Happy birthday to me.


End file.
